


The Last Thing That I Do (is to bring you down)

by dls



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Tragedy, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25560100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dls/pseuds/dls
Summary: A hunt goes terribly wrong.Jaskier dies believing the witcher will not mourn him. Geralt tells himself he holds no love for the bard.It's both what they wanted and not.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 63
Kudos: 257





	The Last Thing That I Do (is to bring you down)

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try writing a major character death fic with the death not being the saddest thing...and, well, this is what happened. It's ~~a bit~~ a lot different from what I usually write so thank you for taking a look. :)
> 
> Beta-ed by [InkAtHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkAtHeart/pseuds/InkAtHeart).
> 
> References/Quotes   
>  Title from "Bleeding Out" by Imagine Dragons, suggested to me by [handwrittenhello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello).

"Jaskier..." Geralt reaches for him, cupping his cheek with a calloused palm. 

Jaskier has always had an ear for music and, over the years, he's trained it to decode the wide array of Geralt's monosyllabic sounds. He knows what that tremble in Geralt's voice means, easily identifies the emotions ripping through his witcher's armor of stoicism and tearing at that soft heart underneath. 

Guilt and grief. 

A potent and poisonous combination that will surely bring even the strongest man to his knees and rob him of the will to stand back up. 

And Jaskier refuses to do that to his witcher. Refuses to see his witcher fall and become less than what he knows Geralt should be. What he  _ is _ . A great hero meant for greater deeds than mourning a lowly bard who annoys more than endears- 

Fuck! His thoughts scatter as Geralt puts pressure on the wound in his gut. A spike of pain sears through his veins, erupting out of his mouth in a scream. 

Geralt says...something that he can't make out over the roaring in his ears. He can, however, see the sadness tarnishing the gold of his witcher's eyes. And that simply will not do. 

Jaskier draws in a stuttering breath, gathering what remains of his wits, then takes all of his hard-earned knowledge of what pleases Geralt and manipulates it with the same precision he pays to his compositions to drive Geralt away. This will be his final performance and he intends to leave a lasting impression. Though, gods willing, it will not be a positive one. 

His body burns, fiery agony radiating from his core. Ever the artist, he draws inspiration from his environment and lets the pain color his voice dark as he opens his mouth…

...and spews forth the cruel words of prejudiced townsfolk wrapped in the revolting arrogance of spoiled nobles with a few choiced phrases about Destiny that he knows will raise Geralt's heckles. A gorgeous diatribe designed to ground this fluttering thing between them. It was never destined for flight anyway. 

Geralt flinches but does not move away. "No, you don't mean that. I know you, Jaskier. Stop this, please." The pleading note in his gruff voice is as incongruent as a snapped string. Piercing and discordant. 

"That's where you're wrong,  _ Butcher _ ." No punch greets him this time but he struggles for air anyway. Jaskier forces his grimace into a grin, a bloody and sharp curve that he knows will sink into Geralt like a knife in the back, aimed perfectly to hurt but not to kill. Leaving behind a wound that will scab quickly and scar none, will have Geralt snarling at the betrayal and burning with rage. An outcome far more preferable to growing cold with sorrow. 

Because Jaskier knows anger is the one emotion Geralt is comfortable with. So let his last act of friendship, of devotion, be the destruction of the very thing he's spent the majority of his life building and protecting. 

Jaskier wills himself to believe every barb he spits. It's less difficult than he thought it'd be, but perhaps not unexpected given that his greatest truth and deepest secret have always been his love, both sung across the Continent and kept unspoken, for the White Wolf. 

Love conquers all, the ballads croons, surely the truth will fall before it too. 

A gurgling sound accompanies his next insult, ruining his impeccable pronunciation. Gods, he hurts. Every breath is a flame in his chest and every exhale a blade in his throat. But he cannot stop. Not as long as Geralt is still holding him like something precious. 

Darkness gathers at the edge of his vision but he can see clearly how Geralt's eyes widen, then narrow. The beginning of grief is chased away by confusion, followed by hurt, and finally escalating into fury. 

"Jaskier!" Geralt snaps with a clench of his jaw. "Stop, I know you don't mean-" 

"I do. Thought you can smell lies,  _ mutant _ ." 

Geralt swallows heavily. "Why are you doing this? Why are you destroying our last moment-" 

"Because I cannot find  _ peace _ until you know how I truly feel about you. How I've hated-"  _ Loved _ "- every moment by your cursed side." His words are halting and wheezing with none of his eloquence, a fitting delivery for such ugliness. 

Finally. Geralt moves back with his hands dropping limply by his sides. "Is that so?" 

"Yes." 

"I never asked you to follow." 

"You should have-" Another gurgle. So undignified. "-left me in Posada." 

"Yes, I should have." Geralt says through his teeth, gritted words rubbing like salt in the wound. "Then we wouldn't be here."

"And yet, here we are." Another moment successfully soured, judging by the distaste flitting across Geralt's face. 

Jaskier hates himself for a role well-played. Will hate himself for the rest of his life. Lucky for him that it's coming to a rapid end. He shivers, cold without his witcher's touch, or possibly from the blood loss. Gods, he can feel it soaking the back of his doublet. But he's also warmed by the knowledge that Geralt will not have cause to miss Jaskier's absence. 

His witcher will be free to continue on the Path, no longer burdened with a shit-shoveler's dead weight.  _ Literally _ . 

Laughing at one's own joke is rather uncouth but Jaskier figures some allowances can be made for a man on his deathbed. Death forest floor? No matter. He laughs but no sounds come. Still, he feels a certain joy, a bittersweet relief, at Geralt's admission that he now regrets their meeting. 

Good. Let the witcher lament the road not taken instead of the one they journeyed together. 

The world grows quieter, darker, colder. And then, it is no more. 

*

Jaskier's blood is red, a bright splash that catches Geralt's eye and steals his breath away. Like the scarlet doublet that's still vivid in his memory, in stark contrast to the pale sky and hazy hills on a mountain he'd rather forget and wish he'd never set foot on. 

But he's learned his lesson about wishes, hasn't he? 

Except...if he had a djinn, Geralt knows he would not hesitate to demand that Jaskier live. 

Because his bard, his foolish and reckless bard who pushed Geralt out of the way and took the claw meant for Geralt himself, will not see the sunrise otherwise. He may not see sundown, either. 

"Jaskier..." He cups Jaskier's face, noting its pallor as his heart sinks to the bottom of his gut, lands in the soft dirt under his knees, and drowns in the rapidly spreading pool of blood. The scent of copper mingles with the lavender he can smell in Jaskier's hair. 

Cloying. Suffocating. Deathly. He is going to lose Jaskier today. 

Still, Geralt cannot sit and do nothing. He presses a hand against the wound -  _ too deep, too wide _ \- and regrets it when Jaskier screams. 

It is always his bard who pays for Geralt's mistakes, be it a thoughtless wish or misplaced anger or the selfish need to do  _ something _ that ends with an empty gesture that helps no one. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Words he should have said earlier and more often, words he should have worked harder to not have to say at all. 

Of all the possible responses, he didn't expect the stream of vitriolic loathing to spill from Jaskier's lips. And like the blood from his gut, they are too fast for Geralt to staunch the flow and can only listen and stare in dumb disbelief. 

Gods, Jaskier has a way with words. A sharp wit that turns words into stories, a spell cast in song that bewitched the masses. Geralt hasn't been called the Butcher in nearly two decades, and now more often coins are tossed to his person than stones. Now, the wit is still sharp but instead of slicing away at Geralt's poor reputation, it is carving pieces out of the space beneath his ribs, hollowing his insides. 

"No, you don't mean that." Geralt can't quite keep the plea out of his voice though he knows every hateful thing hurled at him is false, a fact he can hear loud and clear in the slowing beats of Jaskier's heart. "I know you, Jaskier. Stop this, please." 

"That's where you're wrong,  _ Butcher _ ." Jaskier wheezes, pink lips and white teeth stained with crimson. 

The title slams into him like a punch. A twisted reenactment of their first hunt together, an act of violence that Geralt never apologized for though he vowed to never raise a hand to Jaskier again. A promise he's kept even when the urge to hit became the need to touch. Didn't raise a hand to brush sweaty bangs out of those blue eyes as they travelled across the Continent, to wrap around surprisingly broad shoulders as they navigated through crowds, to hold what time will surely steal from his grasp too soon. 

He kept Jaskier at bay with a different kind of violence. 

Belittlement. Criticism. Dismissal. 

The same attack Jaskier is unleashing upon him now, each slur landing like a blow and every blame a cut, tearing the wings off of this soft fluttery thing Geralt's hidden beneath his armor and inside his rib cage, leather and bone his protection against what he cannot fight. It crashes and does not get up. 

"Jaskier! Stop, I know you don't mean any-"

Jaskier hisses, a wet noise that makes Geralt's skin crawl. "I do. Thought you can smell lies,  _ mutant _ ." 

He can, which is how he knows that everything Jaskier said is untrue. What he doesn't know is why. Why is Jaskier doing this? Why destroy their last moment together? 

"Because I cannot find peace until you know how I truly feel about you." Jaskier spits out and it is then Geralt realizes he's asked his questions out loud. "How I've  _ hated _ every moment by your cursed side." 

Hate is not what Geralt sees in those sky blue eyes gone overcast with pain. 

_ Oh _ . 

It clicks then, a second of absolute clarity that he's only previously associated with hunts, gleaming in the arc of his blade, right before he lands the killing blow. 

Jaskier is trying to be merciful, granting Geralt what he thinks will be a quick death to the unacknowledged thing between them. To keep Geralt from sipping from the bitter cup brimming with potential unfulfilled by knocking it out of his hand. It's not what Geralt wants but he's never been good at saying  _ no _ where his bard is concerned. He's never been good at saying  _ yes _ either, so perhaps this, then, is his punishment. He pulls away. "Is that so?" 

"Yes." Another lie. 

"I never asked you to follow." 

"You should have-" Yet another lie, drowned in a gurgle. "-left me in Posada." 

Geralt wonders if Jaskier would be safe, would live, would die surrounded by loved ones instead of alone on the forest floor. His own doing and yet Geralt cannot blame him. "Yes, I should have. Then we wouldn't be here." Here, in the woods when they could have been at the coast. 

"And yet, here we are." 

The bath before the banquet and the Child Surprise. A memory overwhelmed by all that followed it that the details are blurred when Geralt tries to picture Jaskier's face, the tilt of his head and the curve of his mouth, but all he sees is through the haze of steam. 

Jaskier sighs, a soundless thing, and stills. 

Geralt blinks, feeling wetness on his cheeks, and realizes he's crying with a numb sort of relief that at least Jaskier isn't here to witness it. That he can spare Jaskier the evidence of his grief after Jaskier spent his dying breath to convince Geralt not to mourn him. An act he will go on performing, for the man who will not be there to see it. 

It won't be hard, Geralt thinks, he's used to hiding his true feelings. 

After all, he's pretended not to love the bard for years. 


End file.
